


damn the world (damn you too)

by soulborn



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Introspection, Jealousy, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 07:36:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12008076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulborn/pseuds/soulborn
Summary: Matt is good at carrying the weight of the world. He loses focus halfway through.





	damn the world (damn you too)

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like this is a pretty throwaway confession, but i’m new here. this might become a series, but i dunno yet. the title comes from a line from “[please let him be happy](http://pencap.tumblr.com/post/152685439505/please-let-him-be-soft-i-know-you-made-him)” by j.p.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Cold, and alone.

That’s how he wakes up. Hummingbird breaths, and something rotting in his chest. It feels worse than anything else. Maybe he’s knocked a few guts out of place this time around and ended up being the one worse for wear. It makes sense considering everything.

Matt tries to sit up, ignores the flare. It builds up around the midpoint of his spine and sharpens, increases the more he moves and the more he tries to breathe. That kick hurt him a little more than he thought it would. Someone in the world is pleased to hear it. Someone in the world probably ordered it. He smiles faintly just imagining it.

He’s holding the devil firmly in his chest where it belongs. It bangs against his immortal soul, tears its claws down his ribs and eats the bone that splinters off. Anyone that wasn’t _him_ would admit it’s all part of the anxiety.

Of being a monster.

Of becoming the monster people fear.

Those are just unfair thoughts, though. Anyone who wasn’t Matt would probably try saying it too. They don’t see the way the world burns, or _hear_ those demons’ purrs as they lurk, ready to tear everything down. They’d laugh if he said it out loud.

But Matt wakes up cold, and alone. He’d managed to crawl into his own sheets at least. Silk, and gentle to his bruises. He’d shaken the suit down in a pile somewhere. His head hurts just thinking about it—but that unapologetic pain could also be from one of those goons from last night in the warehouse who had laughed a little _too_ loud at seeing Daredevil.

And yeah, that’s _right,_ and it’s all coming back now. Matt remembers more now that he’s struggling to sit up and move, trembling fingers reaching for his talking clock. It wasn’t the pain that woke him up. It was the ringing. Insistent. Loud as hell, and probably not worth the trouble it puts him through.

 _you should’ve called claire,_ comes the nagging little voice in his head that sounds a little _too_ close to Foggy for comfort. She could’ve patched him up. Slipped something nice between his lips, fed him water tenderly from a bottle. Matt smiles. The bad thing about Claire is that she doesn’t have x-ray vision.

Matt’s used to waking up alone. And cold. And hurt. He moves too fast and feels the world start to spin—the _unforgiving_ kiss of a concussion.

Claire is kind, but she’s not too kind in the same way that she cares, but she doesn’t care too much. He broke that part of her. He messed it up. He reached deep in a place he shouldn’t have and ruined it. He broke it, whatever it was, as if it were something easy for him to do. Matt’s keeping the devil away from everyone, but sometimes it slips out.

His immortal soul deserves all the shredding it gets.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Someone smells like spring. Like thousands of flowers springing into bloom. Bursting, pretty petals. It’s Karen. She’s tucking her hair behind her ear while looking up at it, and Matt’s never understood it. She could just pull it back, tuck it up somewhere good, and then he wouldn’t be able to _smell_ it.

Long for it, or whatever the world is going to accuse of him today. He taps against the floor restlessly and harshly. They hear that before they hear him. It’s not something he can relate to. Matt can hear her shoving her chair back in anticipation.

Matt adjusts his glasses before he walks in. He fumbles with the doorknob seriously, tripping up on it, losing his grip. Naturally, because he smelled the polish from down the stairs—and it’s unexpected with the way the grease clings to his skin. He finally manages to get it open.

‘Matt, I’m—’

He tilts his chin, owlish, blinks behind his glasses because Karen cuts off before she even begins. Her gasp brings Foggy out of his office.

‘Jesus, Matt,’ Foggy breathes shakily. ‘What the hell?’

Matt smiles. ‘What is it?’ he asks. ‘Do I have something on my face?’

‘Yeah,’ Karen says. Her heart is fluttering, squeezed in a vice grip, and Foggy’s isn’t doing much better where he’s just beginning to slouch. ‘Yeah, I—Holy shit.’

Matt smiles again, this time exasperated. He feels along his cheek and remembers last night again. Someone’s elbow glanced off his face. It was an accident, or could be. He’d tripped going up the stairs; it wasn’t an excuse he’d mumbled out before and might explain the slight limp. He’d tripped going down the stairs, because that might cover up the way his hand immediately goes to support his back.

‘Rough night,’ he says instead. Avoids it, flightless.

It doesn’t exactly work. Karen is shaking, delicate, and Foggy’s heart is pounding. Matt can’t tell if it’s anger or fear. Anger, because Matt is trying to limp away from the conversation, or worry. Worry, because a blind man getting mugged in Hell’s Kitchen isn’t that rare these days.

They don’t let him get that far away. They wouldn’t, but he doesn’t even get to try and make it to his desk before they’re both hovering. Foggy’s hands are assured where they take the lead, stealing away Matt’s cane and tucking it into a safe corner. Karen’s hands are shyer when dealing with things like this. She touches him on his arm, and then his shoulder, and pulls away completely when he groans.

The groan is mostly for show, and mostly for himself. It eases the knot in his spine just a little bit even as his friends sputter useless things at him, about _taking it easy_ and _explaining from the beginning._ Matt just tries to smile at them as he feels for his chair. It’s intense when he sits.

‘So, about those cases we have,’ Matt begins.

‘Well, I mean, I’m—’ Karen says, fingers over her mouth, muffling her breath. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Am I sure of what?’ Matt asks. He purses his lips.

‘Are you sure you feel like working, buddy?’ Foggy asks hesitantly.

Matt reaches for the button of his coat and sighs as he unfastens it. He does his best to lean back in his chair, but it sets off a million fireworks in his bones.

‘Of course,’ Matt says. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Have you _seen_ yourself?’ Foggy breathes.

Matt raises his eyebrows, and it’s sarcastic enough that Foggy huffs out a weak apology. He takes the reigns apparently. Snaps them firmly. Tries to be imposing, but it doesn’t do much.

‘You know what I meant,’ Foggy says heavily. ‘Like, you look like _shit.’_

‘Yeah, it’s,’ Karen says weakly, ‘pretty bad, Matt.’

He hums to himself, nods along to an excuse he doesn’t feel like making. It takes effort, and that’s too much. He shakes his head and waves his hand. Lodging them off his trail has never been easy, but he can’t see the disappointment that lurks around the corners of their faces.

But he takes the time to imagine what it would _look_ like, if he were able to see. Would Karen’s gentle features being turned up at it all, almost like a cringe? Would Foggy try to pretend to know better? It turns out that Matt would rather not know.

He hums to himself and shakes the lapels of his suit top, running his other hand down the smooth fabric of his button-up. He bounces his knee in frustration and hopes they can feel it thrumming through their muscles in the same way that he can. It’s a bitter thought that comes from being stranded in a place people forget to look. He’s climbed high.

‘Tell me about the cases, Karen,’ Matt murmurs patiently.

Her heel scrapes against the floor. And her heart is still going fast, too nervous or scared or whatever. Matt knows she’s probably determined to find a way out of this. She’ll lie prettily that they don’t have much, and it’s really alright if he wants the day off. He can _hear_ her glancing at Foggy for support. The bastard supports her, because Matt can hear him nod. They lie, soft and together. An image.

They’ve come up with a secret, and they’re sticking to it. Matt tilts his chin again while Karen crosses her arms against her chest. Foggy has all but dug his feet into the ground. Unmoveable, sculpted like a statue.

‘Miss Page?’ Matt asks patiently.

‘There’s not any,’ she lies. ‘Or, you know, active ones. You can, uh, go home. And rest.’

Matt sighs, hard and heavy, and reaches his hand out to grab his—

It’s not there, but Foggy is fumbling to grab the cane from wherever he stuck it. Matt takes it from him, shyly twirling it in his hand. It’s true that neither of them have really begun to regret their decision just yet. Lying to a blind man, and forcing him out of work just because he’s shown up a little ugly. It’s a touch cruel, perhaps.

‘Hey, Matt,’ Foggy says. ‘Do me a favor, would ya, buddy?’

‘Mm, and what’s that?’ Matt hums.

He’s hoping he can get out of it before they say something that hurts to hear. There aren’t many things that shake Matt down to his core, but it’s been bordering on being too much.

And that’s the _hurried_ palpitation of anxiety that’s beating like a song in his ears, too close and voluminous for him to focus on what he’s doing. Foggy doesn’t catch him by his elbow. He doesn’t grab Matt. He doesn’t force him to stay anywhere against his will, or manhandle him. Karen wants to, though. Matt can sense it just from the way she takes a step when he does.

‘Go to the ER or something, man,’ Foggy says. ‘You’re walking like a geezer.’

Matt laughs despite it.

He uses his walking stick more like a crutch on the way out. It doesn’t hold his weight well, but Matt feels their stares. He presses his hand against his bruised back.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He doesn’t go to the ER. He doesn’t even walk by the hospital on his way home. He calls the next best thing, and pretends his heart doesn’t give into yearning. Claire picks up after the first ring anyway. She’ll deny it later on, but she did.

She doesn’t sound mad after he explains what happened. Matt does his best to keep it light. Because he _did_ take a tumble down the stairs, but he took someone else down them with him. It hurt his back. It split his head. He’s had a ringing headache for at least five hours by this point that doesn’t show any signs of stopping.

Claire, bless her heart, promises to stop by his apartment once she’s grabbed lunch. Matt waits on her to arrive and drinks a bottle of water so she can’t be on his ass for not staying hydrated while saving the world in his underwear. His lips feel less chapped after. A miracle.

‘Christ,’ she says as soon as she arrives.

‘Not even close,’ Matt jokes evenly. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be close.’

‘Want me to describe it?’ Claire asks him, and swings her hair over her shoulder.

She smells like antiseptic. She smells like bandages and gauze. Clinical. Precise. The glide of a scalpel. He opens his lips to taste her. She doesn’t taste any better, but at least he can pick up the cheap hotdog from a side vendor she picked up on the way over here. The bitter coffee, and her tea tree oil shampoo mix. He closes his mouth.

Matt could paint a picture in his mind if he felt like dragging his fingers over his face. It hurts to touch, and stings a bit more than he wants it to. He had done his best scrubbing it clean in the shower. Not good enough, but his best (—the _constant_ cycle.)

‘Bruising on your right cheekbone,’ Claire says, ‘but probably not a fracture. Just looks like shit. There’s a small cut, not needing stitches, beneath. Just looks like you nicked yourself shaving.’

‘Not bad,’ Matt says.

‘Uh, pretty bad,’ Claire says instead.

She touches his cheek, frames it with her fingers, pressing just to make sure she wasn’t wrong. It feels good even though it shouldn’t, and Matt leans into it. Warm, and comfortable.

‘Where else, hm?’ Claire asks. She removes her hand.

‘My back,’ he says. ‘It’s the worst.’

‘Not sitting too pretty this time, are you?’ she asks.

She snaps her gloves on even though she doesn’t have to, he doesn’t think, and makes him lay shirtless on his couch on his stomach. She sits awkwardly against the backs of his thighs and presses her fingers into his skin. Brushes up on the countless knots. Kneads a little _too_ hard against a sensitive knob, and has to grab at his hips to stay steady when he jerks.

Claire doesn’t say anything about it. She just pushes her fingers against that spot again, less harsh, and runs her fingers along the curve of his back. She drops down to the waistband of his sweats, and follows back up. He pretends it doesn’t give him the chills. Whatever she’s looking for isn’t there.

‘You have nice hands,’ Matt says softly. The cushion rubs against his cheek.

‘Yeah, this...is not good,’ she says, distracted—not wanting to go _there._

It’s nothing scathing. She doesn’t launch into a tirade about his nightly activities, or hold him hostage as she tries to figure out what’s going on in his head. Matt’s a little taken aback when she just presses her fingers against his muscles this time and rubs comforting patterns.

She makes little circles along his back that aren’t supposed to mean anything. They’re nonsensical. They’re unapologetic, and it tingles down in the depths of his toes. Matt could fall asleep to it. It’s finally a touch that isn’t trying to kill him or hold him back. There’s nothing restraining about it, and he’s thankful for that much. Claire doesn’t say anything about it.

Specifically, she doesn’t say _anything_ about how he went lax under her touch or why she’d even been so sweet in the first place.

‘You can’t go out like this,’ she says.

‘Thank you for stopping by, Claire,’ Matt murmurs sensitively.

‘I mean it, Matthew.’

_cold, and alone._

An accusation: _do you want to die, matt? because that’s what’s going to happen if you go out there._

Claire just sighs, heavy and patented. Annoyed. Whatever was building up drops just like that. Extinguished. A stomped out match. It’s gone in a flash. Matt’s back to feeling pathetic. A different kind of terrible. It’s an impasse, because it has to be. It’s Matt and Claire. It’s Claire and Matt. It’s the epitome of it; the picture of stubbornness between two people.

She tells him it could be anything. It _could_ just be a knot that’s built up from the stress of getting his ass kicked. But it _could_ be something else. She says scary things like a bulging, herniated disc. She threatens with the fact that there’s nothing she can do if it worsens.

She kisses his forehead before she leaves.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_don’t be such a fucking pussy._

That’s not Battlin’ Jack Murdock whispering in his ear. It’s a different voice, just as familiar, but deeper with the promise of giving trauma. Matt opens his eyes into nothingness. He purses his lips. Stick’s not there when he wakes up, but Matt can smell him.

There’s pain medication sitting on the table that he doesn’t touch. He leaves it for another time. He sits up gingerly and holds the bottle in his fingers. He stores it with the rest of his painkillers. There’s at least four bottles Claire has stolen. For him, but Matt won’t take him. He’s not entirely sure it’s the Catholicism.

It’s not Stick either, although Matt is very aware of Stick’s opinions on anything and everything. It goes hand in hand. Any items that could dull Matt’s senses were practically banned. He can’t take all the credit, though. Battlin’ Jack never used any either even if his vice was brandy stored on the counter right by the fridge. Sometimes you just gotta hurt. You just gotta _feel._

And Matt _does_ hurt when he reaches for his phone. It’s trapped on the table somewhere beneath a gauze pad Claire left behind.  He picks it up, brushes faulty threading off the screen. Then, he dials.

He’s not really sure what he’s seeking while he waits. He drums his fingers against his knee and bounces it, digs his toes into his carpet rug and waits while it rings, rings, and _rings_ some more. Matt licks his lips and longs to put on his gear.

His breath hitches unapologetically in his throat. Each mechanical ring does something weird to his brain, and squeezing his eyes shut doesn’t make it stop. That’s the concussion he forgot to bring up. Elbowed, or was it punched? He’s too tired to remember. It’s not a bad thing.

‘This is Franklin Nelson speaking,’ comes the greeting. ‘How may I help you?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Matt says, smiling. ‘This is Matthew Murdock.’

Foggy snorts. It isn’t very charismatic.

‘I’m calling because I think my friend might be a bit of a loser,’ Matt says gently.

‘Well, that’s not good, is it?’ Foggy chokes, stumbling over laughter

‘Yes, you see,’ Matt continues, ‘I was wondering if there was some sort of civil suit I could file.’

‘What is the purpose of this lawsuit?’ Foggy asks, mock serious. ‘You’re in the right hands.’

There’s someone else laughing too. A tinkling noise in the background. It isn’t Marci. She was never so delicate in her persona. Matt brushes his fingers against his lips and waits. But sure enough, that’s who it is, still at the office despite the hour. There must’ve been work after all.

Not that he holds it against them at this point. It _was_ a bit nice to lounge around and do nothing but nap for a little while, sleeping off the swelling and what not. His cheek doesn’t feel as tight as it had earlier, or pinching when he tested it out. Now it’s easy. Now it’s fine, or as fine as it’s going to get. Matt licks his lips, still moist.

‘Nelson and Murdock are _the_ right people, if I do say so myself,’ Foggy says. ‘We specialize in taking care of the little man. Would you like to schedule your appointment?’

‘You schedule your own appointments?’ Matt asks, scandalized. He’s on speaker, he can tell, and Karen is laughing at it all. ‘Don’t you have a secretary for that?’

They’ve broken into their own little fits again, hiccups and shrieks that border on being too-much-fun. Matt nods along and waits for it to subside. He bottles up all the noise and stores it someplace special. It sits in his chest, or something like that.

‘Come over,’ he says softly.

Foggy’s breath hitches. ‘Huh?’

‘I said, come over,’ he repeats. ‘Unless you really are that busy.’

‘No, no,’ Foggy says. ‘We’re not busy, Matt.’

‘So come over,’ he says again. ‘Karen too, of course.’

They take a moment to respond. Matt might’ve crossed a boundary he didn’t realize they had. Where, on weeknights, only Karen and Foggy are allowed to have fun. Just the two of them together, drinking and lighting up the world with their irresistible charms.

While he stayed home. Or was out, fighting, doing backflips in the pouring rain. It’s an aggressive assumption that leaves Matt feeling remarkably unfair. He bites his lip.  Bitterness suits him all too well these days. It’s what he gets for everything he’s done. Matt’s tired of holding his breath, or his tongue.

‘Of course, Matt,’ Karen says quickly.

She must’ve heard his heart breaking over the line, or caught on to the mood in the wind. Matt sounds downright miserable to himself, and wonders if it plagues their dreams too.

‘I’ll be waiting,’ he says distantly. He doesn’t hear them hang up.

He’s tired again. Bone-weary, cold and alone. He’s shivering in his tee when he could be covered up, and should be. His back smarts when he stands up, but it’s not as bad as it could be. He manages to limp his way to his closet without much trouble.

They’re just hanging out, sitting around, doing nothing. There’s no reason to get all fancy. If he looks a mess, he’s sure they’ll understand. If they don’t, then he’ll accept that too. The world doesn’t stop just because he asks it too.

Matt doesn’t ask for help often. He doesn’t invite people over unless it just happens to end that way. All those tales of him going out and wreaking havoc with the girls or boys are inevitably, truthfully, lies.

He is mild-mannered and easy going when the devil isn’t rearing its ugly head in his chest. Making demands. Peeling apart his marrow for a taste of something sweet. Matt is nothing like those playful rumors in college. He chooses to embrace them.

Karen and Foggy show up not much later nursing a handle of something dangerous and carrying bags of what smells wonderfully like Thai. If Matt still looks like shit—and he _knows_ he still looks like varying degrees of shit—they don’t say anything this time around. Karen fills the air with spring, and Foggy is warm.

‘You didn’t have to bring anything,’ Matt says.

‘You kiddin’ me?’ Foggy calls over his shoulder. ‘We’re _tolerable_ friends.’

‘How much do I owe you then?’ Matt asks. ‘For the food? The booze?’

Foggy shrugs, then tells Matt he shrugged. ‘Gonna have to ask Karen about that one, buddy.’

 _hey, don’t be a fucking pussy,_ says Stick horribly.

Don’t melt into the kindness you don’t deserve. Don’t reach out for the kindness that you don’t need. Matt has never been particularly good at following orders. He finds Karen just by the way she drops leaves in her wake. Petals, and leaves, but never any thorns in case Matt might prick his finger on one of them. She’s thoughtful, and kind.

Kind, and she gasps when Matt approaches like _she’s_ the blind one instead. He hears her nails hit against the necklace snug at the base of her throat, and tilts his chin at the way the sound pings against his ears. Drumming against his headache. Not her intent.

Like she wasn’t much expecting him to be around doing much, for one reason or another. Her surprise comes as a shock. He scared her. He didn’t do that. He swallows, because he wouldn’t.

‘Hi, Matt,’ she says faintly, surprised.

It’s hard to tell with her heartbeat as loud as it is. It almost covers up all the noise Foggy is making in the background.

‘Hi,’ he repeats fondly. ‘So, for the—’

‘No, uh, don’t worry about it,’ she says. She waves her hand, then tells him she did. Nervously.

She tucks her dress under her legs as she sits down. She pats the cushion next to her, and even though she doesn’t have to, Matt takes her hand as she sits down—ignores the fire licking up his spine.

‘We’re glad you’re okay,’ she says.

‘I’m glad too,’ he says.

She’s covering her mouth. ‘Did you—What did the doctor say?’

The _doctor,_ not the nurse practitioner friend. Karen still thinks that because she doesn’t any better. She’s trusting. She tucks her hair behind her ear and leans a little too close. Matt leans away.

Foggy has finished scooping things out into plates and is watching. His heartbeat isn’t angry or okay. It’s something else that Matt doesn’t quite understand. He’ll need to take a few more lessons. Foggy would be good practice.

Matt somehow loses the words in what it takes to help Foggy bring the food over. Karen doesn’t ask again, fearful, not wanting to intrude. She’s safe here, and she knows it. She’s a little shy, but not entirely that either. She can be incredibly headstrong when she wants to be, so it must be something else. A focus on their movements, or their reactions Her heart is not afraid. Matt knows that sound, is well-versed in making it appear. He steals bravery and keeps it for himself.

Foggy launches into an immediate speech about some ballgame. He even sets it up to play out loud, and he and Karen discuss it. Matt chimes in when he remembers. But he cannot get the sirens out of his head.

They are shrill and unfair. He can hear screaming if he listens close enough, but it’s being taken care of. Someone is hurt, but they’re already loaded up in the back of an ambulance. It’s fine, he thinks. The city can wait for him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He doesn’t make it to the deadline he has given himself. He can hear Claire’s disappointment. He knows when he’s made a mistake. His body screams it at him.

It wasn’t so bad at first. He knows how to block punches and throw them. He can do a backtuck with no problem. It’s not that his abilities are any different. He wasn’t even caught off-guard, and no one did it to him. He did the pain to himself this time. Matt is well-aware of what he’s done now that he’s sitting in a back alley trying to catch his breath, hoping to regain the feeling in his toes.

When his legs went numb, he stumbled. Then, they disappeared beneath him and he was left grasping at straws beating a hasty retreat. At least the ringing in his ears have stopped. He listens closely and manages to relax. No one’s after him. No one’s chasing him. No one _cares._

Matt braces his hand against his thigh. He tries to use the brick wall behind him for support, and he manages to crawl up a few feet before something goes zipping through his bloodstream. It makes him downright miserable. His legs buckle immediately.

He meditates and tries again. If he basks in the thought of being called a _pussy_ long enough, he’ll get there. As though Stick would ever let him sit there. As though Stick could let this happen without laughing. It’s sad that _that’s_ Matt’s encouragement, but there’s nothing much to be said.

Right now, he is the Man in the Mask and he doesn’t know fear. The devil is alive and is eating everything it can get his hands on. His energy, his thought process. His legs. There’s some sort of mixed up punishment going on here that he doesn’t deserve. Receiving it loud-and-clear is one thing, but it seems to linger on beyond what is acceptable.

Matt sits back down in the trash. He rubs his hands against his chest and reaches for the phone in his pocket. He only stops because he thinks of the _i told you so_ waiting on the other end of the line. It’s determination, and being a complete dumb-ass that helps him stand up.

He lets out a shaky breath, takes a step, and falls again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Matt wakes up alone, shivering.

Cold, and alone. The usual.

Only this time, it’s a bit of a struggle to sit up.

That’s the epicenter of the crash. It’s tunneled and red—always red, burning, a thick fire that Matt never seems to be able to shake. Won’t be able to shake. The fire is in his blood. It doesn’t make anything better. Any sane person would figure it was a burden, would’ve asked their doctors long ago to do something about the damage. Matt just doesn’t mind.

Can’t mind. It helps out with his extracurriculars. It’s because of that burning hellscape that he’s able to put together anything at all. The rotten, gored faces of the people who hurt him. The makeshift den where all the demons crowd.

It’s not the easiest thing in the world. And if Matt is the one who has to suffer because of it, then he will. He’ll do it without any complaints at all. He’ll keep his head low and bide his time. Anything at all to keep from getting lost in the streets of the obvious damned. He’d rather do this than anything else. It makes sense, really. What his grandmother had said. What anyone says.

Matt swings his legs over the edge of his bed with great effort. It sends some static feeling down his back and tingles in his toes as he lingers. He feels for his alarm clock, and slides into a standing position carefully.

His knees do not buckle on the way down. He holds onto his bedside table just in case, a little more desperate than necessary.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Foggy and Karen are talking about Fisk in low, hushed voices. He hears them as he walks down the hall and reaches for the doorknob. They collectively quiet once they realize.

It’s fine, and he lets them have it this time.

The world funnels awkwardly on this day. Foggy does not demand answers he’s not sure he wants, and Karen doesn’t say much of anything. It carries the heaviness of a day promising funeral proceedings, and yet there are none.

They aren’t involved in anything, but they’ve got their hands right in the middle of it. Where they do not need to be. Where they cannot _afford_ to be, but Matt doesn’t say anything. He just leans his stick against the corner and shuffles his way into their kitchenette to fish for some coffee. Karen and Foggy don’t say anything about that either. They’re probably wondering why he’s leaning.

‘Anything?’ he asks, preemptive.

Karen sputters trying to find something, singsong as she digs through some of the boxes alongside where her desk is. Front and center, the leading star. Matt reaches for a cup.

Ignores the static, braces himself while everything _ruptures._

They don’t notice. He doesn’t think they notice, and if they do, they don’t say anything about it. It’s for the best. It’s better if they don’t ask questions he can’t feign the answers to. On one hand, he wants them to. He wants them to demand it so he can spill all his secrets out at one time without giving himself away. They’ll be less...aching that way. Matt can hear their timid heartbeats from where he’s cradling a mug to his chest and feeling against the counter for the coffee pot.

‘We do have _something,’_ Karen says.

‘Oh! Me too!’ Foggy says quickly. ‘But, uh, ladies first?’

There’s the sound of a folder opening. ‘It’s about the Cardenas case. With Tully,’ she explains, brushing her hair away. The smell of spring. ‘I found something interesting while rereading.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Matt hums.

‘Well, I just—I think it’s odd, you know,’ she says. ‘That Tully’s out of reach. It’s convenient.’

‘Marci says there’s nothing we can do about it, unfortunately,’ Foggy sighs. ‘Private island, you know.’

Matt pretends her name doesn’t send the memory of expensive, abrasive perfume up his nose. He wrinkles it slightly at the mention but doesn’t say much.

‘Do you think Fisk had something to do with it?’ he suggests.

It’s not a discussion they’ve crossed before. Pointing fingers. Most of the time, they just yell about the way the justice system could work, like fast-tracking an argument is a type of superpower they have. Is Tully dead? Did Fisk pull the trigger—or did he have someone else do it for him? Matt has only trembled in front of him once.

Karen doesn’t answer, either because she doesn’t want to or she never really thought about following up her train of thought. She just grasped at straws. It’s a pretty common thing when you don’t have much to do. It reminds Matt of those nervous kids in mock court, and how they never expected it.

 _do you want fisk to have something to do with it?_ And those other pretty accusations they love throwing around with no real evidence. Except what Matt has learned, but he can’t share with them those details without finding some convenient reason to be at the same place at the same time as the Devil himself. Foggy chewing on his knuckles knocks Matt out of it.

‘And Foggy, what did you have?’ Matt says, moving on.

There’s another hook in a cheek it seems, because Foggy’s heart does something awful and twists in his chest unexpectedly. Nervousness, and the increased smell of _sweat._

‘Actually, about that,’ Foggy says, backtracking. ‘I need to go do more research on it. Just in case.’

Matt leans his hip into the counter.

Ignores the tingles in his toes. Funny little waves.

‘With Marci?’ Matt teases.

Foggy stutters again. He’s been caught, and he knows it, and he’s good enough to laugh it off. ‘With Marci,’ he agrees.

Matt doesn’t want to think about the stink of sex. Bundled up nerves, the spit and sweat that’ll cling to the skin afterwards, and how it’ll clog up his nose. He used to hate it all the time in college, even worse when he could _hear_ it. He smiles anyway because there’s nothing he can say.

Doesn’t want to be accused of being jealous. He’s not sure if he can come back from it if that’s what’s hanging around the corners of the ceiling. Not because of whatever they’ll come up with. He just shakes it off.

‘Go right ahead, buddy,’ Matt says.

 _enjoy your stay,_ and that too. He doesn’t really imagine Foggy is the one to initiate things. He’s sure Foggy will try to stay focused digging into the depths of the files stacked neatly over there until Marci shifts to sit a certain way. Karen seems to be following along just fine, because she’s nodding, and doing something odd where she bounces between each foot. Swollen feet from standing for a long time. That’s right. Of course.

Matt pulls the mug up to his lips and takes a sip. He can taste everything and nothing at all. Can’t see worth a damn either, but there’s nothing he can do about that. He licks the corners of his lips—and hears the soft gasp. His lips, wet. Popping as he waits to say goodbye. Bitten.

‘Karen and I will be here then,’ Matt says. Smiles.

Takes another swig of the coffee and holds back a grimace from the burnt taste of it. Foggy hoots like a kid who has been given permission to stay out a little longer than usual, and _he’s_ the one leaving early this time around. He slides his jacket on and waves as he’s out the door.

Foggy remembers Matt can’t see halfway out the door. He sticks his head back in and tells Matt he waved, and he’ll catch up with them later over drinks. Belatedly, Matt remembers to laugh it off. And now it’s just them, a lion and a deer. Matt isn’t sure who is playing the part of what. There’s a ferocity climbing, building like a stormcloud and almost as palpable as the lightning that ruins everything it touches.

‘So,’ Karen says—gasps softly, a tick of hers, loud.

‘So,’ Matt repeats. It’s uneasy camaraderie.

They haven’t really been alone together before save for the first time they met. Framed, and still stinking of a dead man’s blood as she sat shivering. She’s a different Karen now. She’s still soft, but now she’s impulsive too. Found a backbone.

Stole Matt’s right from him, excluding the protruding knob halfway down that still causes his knees to go a little lax when he moves. They’ve not been alone together, not like she and Foggy have.

‘How much do you want to bet he’s not really researching?’ Karen asks sarcastically, out of nowhere, but good-natured. Matt can hear her smile from where he’s standing, and laughs.

‘Not a lot, to be honest,’ Matt tells her.

‘I’m happy for him,’ she says like it’s nothing. ‘Glad he found a way to get away from all of this.’

‘Knowing Foggy,’ he says, ‘he’s in just as much trouble with Marci.’

There are a thousand things he could say. A million one-liners that wouldn’t mean anything. Throw away lines. Stories from college she’s probably heard before. Matt can’t give Foggy that much trouble, not after all those months he ditched out on. He’s ditching out now too, or should be.

It’s hard to think with everything that’s going on. It’s certainly a brand of sin to have to deal with this much corruption ringing around in his ears. It doesn’t just become worse at night. Matt can hear the sirens all the way in his office. A woman shouting, a kid laughing. Some guy is down at the hotdog stand arguing about prices, says someone downtown is cheaper, and maybe they are. It’s undoubtedly overwhelming—but at the same time, Karen’s heart is just a little louder than the rest.

Matt runs his fingers over the face of his watch trying to gauge the time. It’s still too early to leave. He’s just stepped in. It can’t be him this time.

‘Let’s get to work, Miss Page,’ Matt says.

‘There’s not much to work on,’ she admits.

It does not make up for her lie the other day.

She does that _thing_ women do when they want to be assertive but demure at the same time. She follows him into his office without saying anything, and then hovers.

‘Foggy told me you touched his face,’ Karen blurts out.

Matt turns his head so hard his neck nearly pops.

‘He, uh, he said—’ She licks her lips. ‘He said that’s how you...know what people look like.’

‘He isn’t wrong,’ Matt replies carefully.

There might be something he’s missing judging from the way the conversation dips. If she’s interested in something, she doesn’t say it. She just lets it hang over their heads. Brighter than the moon. Than the flashes that happen when he closes his eyes. Matt feels his hands shake a little bit, fingers curving over the edge of his desk. And he wonders, because he is human. He wonders what she would feel like if he touched her. She’ll have to ask. Of course, she’ll make him ask.

‘Do you, uh,’ Matt says faintly. ‘Do you want me to...know?’

‘That’s so weird, isn’t it?’ Karen whispers. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. It’s rude, right? I’m sorry.’

‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s fine. Pull up a chair. And I’ll—I’ll _see.’_

It’s not offensive. Maybe to someone else it would be, but it’s not to him. She can’t help it, doesn’t know any better. She’s just following whatever it was that Foggy fed to her. Out of the blue and unthinking. Like everyone is at first. Matt doesn’t think anything of it. He just listens as she moves close. She plants the chair beside him. He can’t tell what’s louder—her heart or her _breathing._

Matt reaches his hands out helplessly. He presses his lips into a firm line. He doesn’t jerk when she grabs him, squeezes his wrists. She guides his hands to her face incredibly slow. She’s the one that seems to be on the edge of everything. When he touches her, she stops doing anything at all. He curves his fingers over her cheekbones carefully and memorizes the gentle shape. He thumbs her smile lines. He traces her forehead and hesitates at her chin.

Matt pushes his fingers into her hair just to identify the length even though he can hear it sway against her shoulders every time she shakes her head. She doesn’t say anything the entire time, and that’s unlike Foggy who wouldn’t shut up. He’d been a mess apologizing for every detail of his face that he figured Matt wouldn’t like. As if it _matters_ what Matt likes when he’s blind, and even when he’s not, it’s grotesque—but that’s never anyone’s fault but his own.

He doesn’t know what to say when it’s over. He doesn’t say anything. He just lets his eyelashes flutter nice and heavy while she doesn’t say anything either. When he glances at her without his glasses to cover it up, he hates that he regrets it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
This time it’s not his fault. Then again, it always is no matter what he does. He does his best, but it’s not enough. He does his worst, and it’s all anyone talks about in the papers for days. He slips up pretty hard this time around. With the roar of the train passing on the tracks, he hadn’t heard the _whip_ of the knife before it sliced into him pretty good.

‘Fuck,’ Matt says weakly.

Cold, and alone. Now _bleeding._

He hates to think about how it will eagerly seep into his bed sheets while he tries to relax. It’s not anything he can’t handle, not deep enough for stitches.

It just stings worse than he wants it to.

Stick was right. He was right about a lot of things from start to finish, but Matt being weak is the most constant thought. Who goes down just because they get cut up a bit? Matt shakes his head.

He pushes his glove against it, right on his lower side, and ignores the way it stings. He’ll keep it compressed until he slouches into his apartment from the top door. He’ll regret it in the morning when he tries to sit up, but not enough to stay down for good.

Between he and the demons dancing in the back of his mind, he knows better. There will never be something strong enough to keep him away from doing _this_ when the city needs him.

God, he really sounds like Elektra, doesn’t he?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Matt holds Foggy’s hand. It’s out of character, impossible. He squeezes too much until the world is black and blue. Foggy doesn’t complain.

He wonders if it goes back to when they were in college. When they sat too close. Shared each other’s air. Swallowed whatever they were given. When Matt let his heartbreak that first semester and couldn’t think passed the stink of Marci’s perfume burning in his nose every time Foggy breathed.

It doesn’t matter. It’s not _supposed_ to matter, but Matt can’t help thinking about it. Their fingers are interlocked and shaking. It doesn’t have anything to do with the chill of the breeze whipping through.

Matt needs to hold onto _something._ Foggy lets him without a word.

He probably figures something is off just by the way Matt tenses at every noise. Too loud, too thick. The cars are rolling slowly through the street without honking, and that’s unusual. Foggy knows. He gets it. That’s why he’s letting Matt squeeze his fingers until they’re swollen and red. And just this once, Matt doesn’t say anything to make it stop. The city stinks, but he holds on.

It should be a crime to be in this sort of position. One where it takes all your self-control to not blurt out old information. Foggy smells like Marci, and Matt knows he doesn’t have a place. It’s too much now. It was too much then too. Matt was just as unfair. He smelled like Elektra.

Now he just smells like death and rotting. Copper, and Karen and Foggy—and now by extension, a little sharp just like Marci. It’s bled into his skin from where Foggy touches his bare skin. The thought makes his stomach roll. Matt presses his lips together.

It’s almost time to get impossibly hot in Hell’s Kitchen. Just a few more months and they’ll have to wait out the stench of a funeral in the heat. Foggy is better at handling these kinds of things than Matt is. It makes sense that way. Foggy doesn’t have the heightened senses. He can’t smell the burning skin. He can’t _taste_ the ashes or hear the desperate sobs in the proceedings. Matt feels like he’s about to drown in it.

‘Let’s go inside, Matt, okay?’ Foggy says. He shakes their hands a little.

‘I’m fine,’ Matt says loudly. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re not,’ Foggy says softly. ‘And it’s okay to not be.’

Matt must look like a sight. He feels pale and pallid, sweaty and gross, and he’s had a migraine beating away in his temples for almost a week now. He’d lay down and nap if it didn’t make the nausea worse. The exhaustion is getting to him.

‘I’m fine,’ he repeats. ‘I promise. It’s just loud.’

‘Let’s go inside,’ Foggy insists. ‘We’ll order from that Chinese place you like.’

Inside, Matt will not be cold. He will not be alone. He’ll be uncomfortable, too warm and too condensed and everything else he’s decided he’s hated. Inside, he will have to deal with the strength of Marci’s perfume and the way he can smell her on Foggy’s mouth.

‘Matt, you look miserable,’ Foggy says, somewhat sad.

Oh—That’s no good. Matt’s never wanted him to be _sad._

‘Tell me how you really feel,’ he mumbles. It provokes a small laugh.

‘You look like absolute _shit,_ Matthew, my boy,’ Foggy says, too fond.

It doesn’t take any more convincing on Foggy’s part to get Matt to climb the stairs. It’s a little odd today since Karen isn’t waiting for them with coffee already boiling. She took the day off, apparently needed it. She had a dentist appointment and she hates those.

They order from the Chinese restaurant Matt likes so much and sit in silence. Matt runs his fingers over the files he needs, and Foggy hums show tunes under his breath. Matt can hear the jazz hands. It’s all too close to what it used to be like in college. The show tunes. Marci. Having someone there. All Matt needs is a little bit of courage to lean closer, and then it will be straight from a scrapbook.

Matt dreams of what it would be like to not be a coward. To lean forward, and kiss Foggy until things felt alright. To taste his lips, maybe his tongue too. To touch the soft edge of his jaw. Matt’s fingers pause on his document. He’s sure Foggy hasn’t noticed.

Bitterly, Matt’s positive Foggy hasn’t noticed. He re-reads the line above and tries to find a detail he’s missed. It doesn’t quite work like he wishes it had. Foggy has always been a shining beacon. A lighthouse on the edge of the shore, because Matt can think of them and see them and remember. Foggy is a guiding light even if he doesn’t realize it yet.

At some point the silence becomes too much. Foggy stands up and turns on the radio, and Matt doesn’t complain about the background noise even if it makes the ringing in his ears persist.

‘Somedays I think we should just quit,’ Matt says suddenly.

‘I could become a butcher,’ Foggy says dreamily.

‘We could beg for our jobs back at Landman and Zack,’ Matt adds. Foggy snorts at the mention of it.

‘You could be, uh, uh,’ Foggy says, struggling, ‘a Sunday School teacher.’

‘You could be with Marci.’

Unannounced, and impolitely slicing through the air. Matt’s tone is surprisingly jovial for what he’d originally expected, and he’s glad he’s had time to grow up. Foggy makes a noise in the back of his throat that’s neither accepting nor judging.

It’s not a suggestion. Matt drums his fingers anxiously against his documents until the Braille seeps into his fingertips. He bounces his knee beneath the table.

‘Nah,’ Foggy says finally. ‘We don’t get along that well.’

 _but you could,_ Matt thinks. It wasn’t exactly the best times in their lives, but it wasn’t the worst. There’s nothing worse than what they’re going through now.  Foggy doesn’t say anything else about it. Matt’s afraid to bring it up as a serious topic. He shakes it off as being one of those “bro” conversations “men” have from time to time.

It’s just another excuse they seem to be sharing. Trotting down memory lane when they shouldn’t be, or making things worse. It’s not as bad as it seems for once. The food is uniquely good, and even though they’re sitting on opposite sides of the table, it’s not as hauntingly lonely as it could be.

Sometimes the outside just gets too loud. Or the concussive ringing in his ears doesn’t stop. Or the knob of his spine is so uncomfortably swollen, Matt can’t even lean back in his chair without groaning. It’s what he gets for chasing nightmares. He’s on his way to becoming one.

‘I know you hate talking about anything that even remotely resembles _feelings,_ but I have to ask, Matt, okay?’ Foggy says carefully. ‘You look like a kicked dog. Are you holding up?’

‘I’m still standing, aren’t I?’ Matt replies lightly.

‘From the looks of it,’ Foggy snorts, ‘just barely. I’ll try to give you a little more credit from now on.’

Matt tilts his chin, listens to that soft heart. ‘What about you? How are you?’

‘Ugh,’ Foggy says. He rolls his eyes, and tells Mat he does. ‘I mean, I’ve been better.’

There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong, but there doesn’t always have to be something on the outside. Matt wishes he could detect the inside. He drums his fingers again.

‘I think it’s just stress, you know?’ Foggy hums. ‘Can’t do a damn thing without getting threatened.’

‘Fisk is bigger than the boogeyman,’ Matt whispers, nodding carefully.

It’s a reference that’s bound to miss the mark. Foggy laughs at it anyway. And it’s such a good sound. A happy one. It makes up for the absolute misery of what’s going on.

It takes away from the suffering, just a little bit.

‘I just wish it was like college, man,’ Foggy sighs. ‘Talking about girls. Waking up, hungover.’

‘We do that now,’ Matt says. ‘I bet you money you’re hungover.’

Foggy laughs again, so pretty. So jovial and impish, right where it belongs. The sound begins at the base of Foggy’s throat and punches out when it really gets to him. Matt’s fingers tremble. Back in college, back when Matt got Foggy laughing _really_ hard, he’d use to lean. Bump their shoulders together because he couldn’t breathe.

‘Not gonna take the bet, then?’ Matt asks.

‘Yeah, definitely not,’ Foggy agrees.

The office is unusually quiet without Karen around. Matt misses the sound of her heels.

It’s almost worth getting kicked in the teeth time and time again. In this shallow building, there sprouts a tree. It will grow with all the love it can manage to snag, and it will be taller than the world. Matt just has to keep it safe from harm.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Matt punches way too hard for the first time in a long time. The flat part of his palm catches the man right in the throat, and the sound of his breath escaping is a little louder than the sound of his gun going skidding across the concrete. He wheezes weakly.

That’s the devil. It nips at Matt’s fingertips and encourages him to do rough things. It doesn’t matter if Matt’s bones are begging for forgiveness.

He pushes in the way that feels right. Matt listens to the sound of it all. The man’s clothes drag against the damp ground as he scrambles back, gurgling. But he isn’t dying. The man would be breathing just fine if he wouldn’t panic about it. It won’t feel like heaven, but he will not die from the pressure of the strike.

Matt’s not entirely sure the man isn’t gurgling for the dramatics. Sometimes animals do that when they’re cornered. They’ll pretend to be more hurt than they are. If they’re being pushed into the shadows by the Man in Black, they’ll increase the antics to survive another hour.

He’s only been reported a killer once. A false accusation. The kind that made Foggy distrust him and Karen wary about stepping out at night. Matt can only imagine what the rumor would have done if Stick had stuck around like he’d promised.

The man grabs his gun, still panting.

His heart is going to jump out his chest if he does not calm down.

Gunpowder smells like ruin and death. Like chemicals dripped over Matt’s skin. He parts his lips because he wants to _taste_ it. Encountering fear is part of the job. His goal is to make it worse.

‘You won’t want to do that,’ Matt says. The gun cocking is nothing to him.

He’s too well-trained to be afraid of the sound of bullets whizzing past his ears. He kicks the gun out of the man’s hand before he can even try it, and grins at how it leaves them both open. Like an avenging warrior, or something as cliche. Stick is probably out there listening and waiting for Matt to slip up. Grab the gun. Pull the trigger. _Kill_ something.

‘Tell me what you know,’ Matt says softly.

It’s not his usual tone. It’s not pitched low and monstrous. There is no grit or gravel in his voice to make it rough. He’s not masking anything, but he should be. He’s really just curious about the way a criminal’s mind words.

The criminal underground mourns the loss of secrecy. The man babbles uselessly. It’s an incredible spill of information that just doesn’t stop coming. Matt learns everything he thinks he needed to know about the world. Where the guns come from. Where they take the kids when they steal them away. What they usually do to people who ask. It’s just not as impressive as the man was hoping it would sound.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It’s hard to think. There might be flies loose in the office. They’re gathering somewhere. Ringing, and it’s hard to ignore. Matt thinks, lightly, idly, that perhaps he should’ve gone to see Father Lantom and confessed it all. He has plenty of sins sitting around. Confessing them might make the pain go away. That’s the only reason it’s still sticking to his skin, isn’t it?

There’s still not enough information being given out for any of it to be useful. There’s nothing on Frisk or the people who constantly surround him. There’s nothing that gives Matt a clue as to why the world is just now beginning to work this way.

In some ways, it’s his own damn fault for not being quick enough to get the details. It doesn’t really boil down to one person having all the blame. It would be easier if it did. Matt could bask in it as gloriously as possible, shaking his head and feeling the moon on his skin.

Instead, he’s left sitting around pushing papers around the office. Karen and Foggy chat cutely and loudly on the other side of his wall. It’s stopped squeezing his heart in a vice that he’s gotten used to the friendliness. It’s stopped bothering him once he realized there was no reason to be sullen. Cold, and alone, always.

They’re beautiful people.

They’re beautiful, friendly people. Foggy and Karen get along together, and there’s nothing abrasive about the jokes they tell, how they lean against one another after too many drinks. Beauty is in the eye. Matt’s absence cannot, could not, _would not_ be helped.

‘You know my mom wanted me to be a butcher,’ Foggy says—his punchline, in itself.

What a punishing, cruel world. It dips in and out of existence as gorgeous as ever. If he were to imagine it, the scene would extend for miles.

Matt festers sorely where others do not. He’s opened up a pomegranate and pulled out the seeds—ran the slick against his teeth until he felt perfectly safe, until he felt _at home._

And is that the righteous punishment (—otherwise, he has not shed enough blood to be allowed to enter those luminescent gates.) It’s only within the realm of that. He’s allowed to exist because of those rapacious thoughts.

The comfort of the grave varies. The still, hidden chambers that ramble on for miles beneath the city are just for juvenile entertainment. A cast involved in a crime are still encouraged to interact wholeheartedly. Matt agrees. He digs his nails into the wound at his side until it aches.

It’s the pain that keeps him alive. He understands what Stick tried to say all those years ago.

Learning to let go is another step to ascension. The wind is a guiding weight. The bells are just a distraction. Matthew Murdock will never be enough on his own. He must always have that darkness to shine. The imagery, the deceit, the _touch_ — and what better way to give it?

In any other role, Franklin Nelson is unconvincing. His mother’s wishes are not aligned with God’s. His hands would tremble too much. Be a little too loud. A little too _aggressive._ There is something about the world that would have always pulled him back in this direction. That, by nature, has nothing to do with Matt.

There are people still out there who chant and chime about the apocalypse. It’s already been averted. Someone has already given their life to stop it the first time. The second time, and Matt is ready to take the stand. He has prayers waiting on the inside of his lips, blossoming into creation every time someone so much as takes a swing at him. Ruining that smile.

 _come on, matt,_ the ghost of his father says. _it’s time for bed._

He closes his eyes, used to the dark. He opens them, and there is still nothing. The pattern of the world hums right between his ears. All this time, he’d thought it was something else. He’d thought it was _someone else,_ but it had been him the entire time. He touches his chest. The slumbering monsters stir at the pressure. And that, Matt knows, is only the beginning.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Nobu’s Shoge carves into the canvas.

It makes a pretty picture. Leaves red welts where everyone can see, and feel, and taste.

It digs into Matt’s ribs and does something pretty to his waist.

The chains create a distracting sound. It ricochets and changes, louder than the heartbeat. He raises his arms to protect. Even that seems to be a mistake. Another, and another, and another. The Shoge is practically ceremonial. Proof of the bait. Proof that he _was_ the bait, and now he has the Devil of Hell’s kitchen right where Wilson Fisk wanted him. Skewered, and bleeding.

This world tastes like copper. This world, polluted. Smells, abrupt. Matt cannot find up from down anymore. His body trembles without his permission. His hands scramble for purchase that will not be granted. Even when he gets his hands on that humming chain, it is not to his benefit. He’s drug across the room. Paints a pretty picture. _Is_ the picture.

Matthew is a sight to behold. Will he be presented by the lovely Vanessa Marianna? Will she craft him a riveting story of pain and passion? He knows those hands are willing to do anything to get another chance to faintly touch something exquisite.

It’s not until the world catches on fire that things start making sense. That’s all it takes. A meat hook, and the frightening feeling of _those_ hands constricting his heart.

 _wait for me, dad. i’m coming to you._   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Cold, and alone.

That’s how he should wake up. It’s not quite as comfortable this time. There are no small aches, just awkward tremors going up his spine and curling his stomach. He hasn’t gotten over the shock of it. Except, interestingly enough, there’s a presence.

The pain is heavy and sits low like guilt. It rumbles around and drags, but at least the knot in Matt’s spine can be the least of his worries now. His hands protest while he reaches. With the blanket slid off, his skin is open to the cold air, and it makes his fingers shake a little worse. It shouldn’t be much. It wouldn’t be just like this. The tape pulls, and now he protests.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ Foggy says.

Low, accusatory. _Angry._

Those words are not enough to stop Matt from touching along the back of his couch. He wonders how far he can reach before it becomes too much, and it isn’t far. He reaches. He’s looking for that helping hand and there isn’t one. Matt’s exhale sounds closer to a sob even to his own ears.

‘Then again,’ Foggy says, just as cruel, ‘maybe I would.’

Matt feels too sick. The bile has finished boiling low in his belly. It’s making its next home in the bottom of his throat, churning, perhaps even explosive if he opens his mouth to reply. It’s too much. His body is jerking and shaking without his permission. The world is too loud. The world has been taken from him. _Foggy_ has been taken from him.

Foggy’s voice is at least closer when he says, ‘What the hell do I know about Matt Murdock?’

What the hell does anyone know about Matt Murdock? He doesn’t even know, can’t read the script of how he’s supposed to reassure Foggy when he runs his fingers across his stitches.

He would have much rather been alone.

Matt has truly done it this time around. His transformation is finally complete.

He is no longer a container for that in which people fear. The lock’s been turned and the cage has been opened. His breath catches on the way out, in too much pain to hide how it wavers. The horns have finally split from his skull.

No, no—Matt Murdock might genuinely be the devil now.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't have a tumblr   
>  ~~  
>  yet  
>  ~~  
>  but i'll make one soon???


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